


From the Realms of Glory

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Crowley finds out and runs with it, Historical, Historical References, Wherein Aziraphale accidentally inspires a lot of people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Once upon a time, a human saw a glowing winged being. Things went a bit sideways from there.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 138





	From the Realms of Glory

**726BC – Mount Helicon**

Cowering behind the fallen tree, Hesiod folded his arms over his head. His sheep had scattered, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The white-haired, white-clad creature was talking in an unfamiliar language, the sunlight casting its broad and terrifying shadow across the ground. No, not talking. It was frantic, angry. To him? He didn’t know. Probably not, what with the hiding behind a tree.

Another voice spoke up, calmer, but in the same language, and the shadow seemed to vanish.

Hesiod peeked between his arms.

“All right?”

Hesiod shrieked, whipping around and scrambling back across the long grass.

A striking woman was standing on the other side of the tree, clad in the strangest apparel, her chiton all in black with patterns of scarlet, her eyes painted like the Egyptians and her blood-red hair dressed like the finest of harlots.

So startled was he by the woman’s strange appearance that it took Hesiod a moment to realise the… creature had gone. “Wait! The… the thing that was here? The thing with the wings? Where is it?”

The woman grimaced. She had the strangest eyes, Hesiod noticed. “You spotted that, eh?”

“It…” Hesiod stared at her. Her pupils were not round as mortal eyes were. The dark orb at the centre was instead a line like a cat’s. “You…”

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose. “Right. So. Here’s the thing. You’ve stumbled into a bit of divine business.”

Hesiod sagged to his knees, heart haring in his chest. “A God?”

The woman’s expression softened with affection. “Him?” She swayed her hand. “Off-shoot of one, I suppose you could say. He’s a bit soft, but not keen on being spotted, not when he looks like that.” She crouched down in front of him and close-to, he could see the coil of a serpent on her cheek. “If you don’t make a fuss, you won’t have any trouble.”

“From him?” he asked hoarsely. “Or from you?”

The woman grinned, showing sharp white teeth. “Do you want to find out?”

He shook his head, bowing down to the ground. If this woman was meeting with some divine being and he had intervened, he had no idea which of them would take a crueller vengeance. “Please tell him I did not mean to look upon him.”

The woman patted his head, as if he was some kind of well-trained animal. “He’ll forgive you.” She got up, walking away, and he dared to lift his head.

“And you?” Hesiod asked carefully.

She paused, stooping to pick up a polished staff, turning it in her hands. “I’ll find him again, sooner or later,” she said. “I always do.” After a moment of contemplation, she returned to Hesiod. “Take this. You’ll need it more than he does.”

Hesiod stared at it. “His staff?”

“Honestly, he’d lose his head if he put it down for five minutes,” the woman said, smiling so readily, love etched all over her face. “Consider it a gift. And a reminder.”

The wood was warm under his fingertips, smooth and beautifully carved laurel wood. He turned it over appreciatively in his hands, following the intricate patterns with the ball of his thumb, but when he raised his head to thank the woman, she too had vanished.

Hesiod sagged back on his heels, staring around the clearing.

Would people believe it, he wondered, if he told them of the winged God descended to earth, who hid his face from mortals, and the woman who loved him and sought him?

He rose unsteadily from the ground, leaning on the staff. The woman had said not to make a fuss, but to tell the story was hardly making a fuss. But how could he keep it secret? After all, everyone knew of the Gods, but how many had looked upon their face?

He tightened his grip upon the staff. Such things needed to be told.

_____________________________________________

**Rome – 8AD**

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Publius Ovidius Naso considered the man on the other couch. “You are new to the city,” he said with as much diplomacy as he could muster. The stranger was clearly a foreigner, his garb out of place, his eye coverings strange, his hair brilliant as vermillion, and his ribald suggestions amusing but… inappropriate.

“I’m just saying,” the man said, reclining on the couch, “it would be entertaining and I’m–” He paused, frowning, and sat up. “What’s that?”

Naso followed his look to a mural on the wall: a painting of Cupid, wings spread wide, fair curls in disarray. “Ah. My great and noble enemy,” he said with a sigh. “Were it not for the pricks of his arrows, my words would have flown more freely.”

“Right.” The foreigner sat up, staring at it. “It’s an angel?”

“An-gel?” Naso shook his head disdainfully. “That is Cupid.”

“Uh huh. And who’s that when he’s at home?”

Truly, this man was even more foreign and ignorant than he had first seemed. “Desire given wing, the piercer of men’s hearts with the folly of love.” At the man’s bewildered and astonished look, he quoted poetry about the God, telling the tale of the poor mortal who had become his love, but had dared to look on his face.

The foreigner’s face split into a grin. “No.”

“Yes! It is a famous and well known tale!”

“Winged God, bit shy around people when he’s all…” The man waved a hand at the mural. “Oh, this is _rich_.” He flopped back on the couch. “Tell me more about this God. What other stories are there? And why does he look like he’s just about to hit puberty?”

Naso curled his lip. Of all the Gods, it had to be this one. “I would rather write that poem you suggested than speak of it.”

The man shrugged. “No skin off my nose. I’ll find out more about the ang– God from someone else. You write your poem. I’m sure it won’t cause any problems.”

**_______________________________________________**

**Constantinople – 536AD**

“I’m just saying,” the enthusiastic Gaulish man said, “you need to make them stand out. Can’t have anyone thinking they’re human.”

Felix frowned at him in confusion. “But they have _wings_ ,” he said. “Humans don’t have wings, so stands to reason they stand out if they’ve got wings, right?” His companion grudgingly nodded at that. “So it’s fine if they look a bit human.”

“S’not the point!”

It was becoming rapidly clear to Felix that ever tale he had heard of the Gauls was in fact true: hot tempered, red-haired and argumentative creatures, completely uncivilised, even now. This one – who had somehow ended up sharing Felix’s table and wine – was a perfect example.

“Tis,” Felix insisted. “What am I meant to do? Give them thousands of eyes and things? Nah! People don’t go to Church to be scared by the creepy eyeball thing on the wall. They need something a bit not-human, but not too much not-human. S’very pagan if it’s too not-human. Bit foreign.”

The man squinted at him through the strange black glass panes he wore over his eyes. “Didn’t say eyes,” he protested. “Doesn’t have loads of eyes. Just…” He waved a hand towards his hair. “Maybe change how he looks on top. Curly. Moon-coloured hair. Not… normal human colours.”

“Moon coloured?” Felix refilled his cup, then his companions. “S’a bit weird.”

“Yes! A _bit_! Not a lot! Just enough to not be like your lads down here. Don’t have Moon-coloured hair much around these parts, eh?” He gave a wide and overly-friendly grin. “It’d be something, wouldn’t it, a nangel with hair like sun’s white fire and all that?”

“Maybe…” Felix hedged, humming. Golden curls would be a fine look.

“And it’d look even more expensive and people would be properly impressed,” his companion tempted. “People like to be properly impressed, don’t they?”

Felix nodded slowly. “They would. And it would look nice beside the halo.”

“Yes! That!” His companion raised his cup. “Best look for any angel, that!”

The next morning, nursing his hangover, Felix very briefly wondered why he had ended up talking to a complete stranger about his work on the mosaics in the Magna Ecclesia. Still, when he – very shakily – climbed up onto the scaffolding to start to decorate the angel’s hair, it shone silver in his fingers.

____________________________

**689AD – Lindesfarne**

“Full colour, eh?”

Brother Matthias nodded. “For God’s glory.”

The red-haired pilgrim grinned at him. He had been sent out to greet the man, but somehow, they had ended up sitting in the sun and talking. “And for eternal back-ache, I bet,” he said, leaning back against the tree trunk, his curly-toed shoes pointing towards the sky.

“Um,” said Brother Matthias.

The pilgrim laughed. “I won’t tell anyone,” he confided. “Don’t worry. Used to work on something similar. Spent half my life bent double, working on the details, and now, the work’s all done, it looks amazing, and I get to sit upright.”

“It’s pleasing, to finish something so beautiful.”

“Yeah.” The pilgrim’s grin turned wistful. He twiddled his fingers in his lap, his tunic a surprisingly dark shade of grey, very close to black. He must have been a wealthy man once, Brother Matthias thought, given the cut of his clothing. “You doing any angels?”

“Your pardon?” Brother Matthias inquired.

“In the text. I know some places are a bit strict about representations of living things.”

Brother Matthias frowned in thought. “I think there are some.”

“D’you know,” the pilgrim said thoughtfully, “I was in Constantinople a few years back. Went to their big church and they had dozens of angels all over the walls. All splendid and robed and hair as bright and shining as the sun.”

Constantinople? As far away as the Eastern Roman Empire?

“It sounds magnificent,” Brother Matthias said softly. The furthest he had dared to venture was to the mouth of the Tyne and even then, it had seemed so very far from Lindesfarne.

“Especially the angel,” the pilgrim said. “They looked all holy and glowy.” He shot a sidelong look at Brother Matthias. “Have you considered making them fair haired? I mean, I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if it works in the Roman church…”

“I’ll consider it,” Brother Matthias said, glancing up as the bells of the Abbey tolled. He got up, dusting down his cassock. “Are you sure you don’t want to come into the sanctuary? You can join us for Sext.”

The pilgrim’s lips twitched. “Not now, Brother. I have a headache.” He settled back more comfortably against the tree. “I’ll rest from my journey.”

Brother Matthias nodded and hurried back along the narrow path towards the abbey. Pilgrims could be such strange people, but the man had given him some interesting ideas for the next page of the illuminations.

____________________________

**1460 – Florence**

Benezzo laid down his brush, studying the fresco. The adoration was close to completion, but there was something that felt wrong about the angels. It didn’t seem right. He had been working on it with such intent that he had been dreaming about it.

Sometimes, an assistant – gangly and red-haired with peculiar black discs over his eyes – appeared in the dreams, making suggestions. Some obscene, some amusing, but some that kept occurring again and again.

Curls of pale gold, like sunlit cresting waves.

The artist hummed to himself, frowning. Many of the models had had used for the poses had been local youths, tawny or dark haired. Pale golden curls, they had not. But he could recall ancient frescoes, statues of old, winged and curly-headed. Perhaps pale curls would not go amiss.

He picked up his brushed and resumed his painting.

__________________________

**Sèvres – 1758**

The man in the middle of the studio was certainly not an artist. His clothing was jet black and pristine, not even a smudge of dust or paint anywhere on it. He was stooped, examining the half-sculpted putto that was to compliment the dinner services.

“Sir,” Étienne strode towards him, praying the man would not consider the sculpture in question a prime example, should he be seeking an artist. “Forgive me, you were not expected.”

The man turned with a crooked grin. “I’m usually not,” he agreed. He was dressed to the height of fashion, despite the severe colours of his clothing. “I like what you have going on here.” He nodded to the small, half-sculpted angel. “Looks like a cheeky little bugger.”

“Ah.” Étienne nodded. “I know most angels are grave creatures, but–”

The man snorted. “Nah. Angels are rascals. Glad to see someone else sees it.”

To his own surprise, Étienne laughed. “In the little ones, it can be excused,” he agreed.

“The hair could do with being a bit more unruly,” the man opined. “I mean, if the grown up ones are all prim and proper, surely the little ones get messy hair?”

Étienne raised an eyebrow. “You would have them as little hellions?”

The man smiled, looking down at the putto. “Just enough of one.”

_____________________________

**1800 – London**

“So, give us the grand tour then.”

Aziraphale beamed, turning to the shop door. “I hoped you would pop back,” he said happily.

Crowley sauntered in, box of chocolates tucked under his arm. “Course. Who else is going to eat these for me?”

The angel positively glowed. “A housewarming gift?” he said, as Crowley held them out.

“Ngh.” Crowley spun on his heel, coat flaring around him. “So this is the bookshop, then? Got quite a respectable stash, haven’t you?”

“Well, I do know what I like,” Aziraphale said mildly, though his cheeks felt quite warm. “Come through. I’ll show you everything and put these on my desk for now.” He led the way into the back room. “Oh and feel free to hang up your coat if you like.”

Crowley did so with a flourish, then gave a hoot of laughter. “I see you’ve gone with a theme, eh?”

Aziraphale turned to see what he was looking at. There was a tiny framed mural on the wall, a small flock of cherubs gathered together. He’d spotted it in France half a century ago and been utterly charmed by it. “I think they’re very sweet.”

“Course you do.” Crowley strolled across to the doorway, peering into the tiny pantry where another Cherub clung to the wall, this one heavy wood, worn with age. “And that little bugger? Looks like you saved him from the Reformers.”

The angel ducked his head with a smile. “Well, it needed a new home.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the little naked one on the table at the front.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh hush! As if they aren’t entirely your fault.”

“ _My_ fault?” Crowley threw himself down dramatically on the couch. “Don’t know where you got a daft idea like that.”

Taking the seat at his desk, Aziraphale gave him an amused look. “I may not pay attention to everything that’s happening in the world, but I’m not entirely blind, Crowley.”

Crowley made a grumbling groan of a sound, flopping his head back on the couch. “Yeah, course, I made everyone draw and build and paint and sculpt chubby babies with wings. Making a fool of angels across the board, isn’t it?”

Soft, gentle, mischievous little angels with pink apple cheeks and pale golden curls. Or stately dignified angels with golden curls and the awe and respect of humanity.

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said as solemnly as he could. “You fiend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hesiod is one of the oldest sources of the Greek myths and allegedly had a supernatural encounter wherein the muses presented him with a laurel staff. I just love the idea that from the year dot, Aziraphale has accidentally been the face of Eros and thereby the face of angels through the centuries :D
> 
> Ovid wrote a lot of erotic-themed poetry and satire and was banished from Rome in 8AD by Augustus for “carmen et error” (poetry and a mistake). No one knows why, but I’m gonna toe-dip into “he wrote something he shouldn’t” territory. Also, he blamed Cupid for the fact he wrote erotic stuff instead of Sensible Epic Poems. The Romans were also the ones who really swung Eros from being one of the Original Big Deities to being a chubby baby with an archery set.
> 
> Hagia Sophia in Istanbul was once the biggest Church in the world. During the time of the Eastern Roman Empire, it was absolutely studded with mosaics, including 30 foot tall angels.
> 
> Lindesfarne is famous for two things: being the first invasion spot by Vikings in the UK and the Lindesfarne Gospels, some of the best preserved Illuminated Texts.
> 
> Benozzo Gozolli did some hecking fab murals in the Renaissance, including the Adoration of the Angels in the Medici’s Palace in Florence
> 
> Etienne Falconet was a sculptor and artist during the Rococo period who did a line of coy and naughty little cherubs

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Multivoice Podfic] From the Realms of Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596960) by [AirgiPodSLV (AirgiodSLV)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiPodSLV), [CompassRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompassRose/pseuds/CompassRose), [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan), [LenaReads (LenaLawlipop)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenaLawlipop/pseuds/LenaReads), [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic), [TheLordOfLaMancha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha), [Tipsy_Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty), [UnholyCrowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnholyCrowley/pseuds/UnholyCrowley)




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